The Artist and Mr Kostan
by Hemlock
Summary: Inspired by silvanelf's Moulin de la Galette. It's about a painting and how our sexy and cool Mr Kostan got involved in it. I'm a Moonlight Virgin!


_I want to own Moonlight and direct it. But I am penniliess in the eyes of the TV moguls and emperors._

_For silvanelf, whose work, Moulin de la Galette, restructured my priorities._

_

* * *

_

_-+-_

_-_

_Losby Gods, Finstadjordet, Norway_

_January 11 1893_

I love the Norwegian days. It so often makes me forget that I am a vampire.

Gosh, no one should write anything like that in a diary. But then, my diary is safe always. I can trust the secret compartment Mr Thorvald Meyer has set up just for me. This place is rather quiet, but solitary is something that I really need these days.

Mr Meyer has been kind enough to let me stay in during the day and have my solitary wanderings around the woods at night, although that schedule of mine became the talk of the help, no doubt, for days. After nothing untoward happened to me for about a week, the chatterboxes settled down and chalked down my nightly excursions to some rich man's eccentricity.

(I hope they don't miss the scullery maid. I heard she was an orphan. A perfect meal.)

That was three days ago. Today I am meeting with Erlend Karlsen. He is, too, a vampire. Refreshingly polite, none of that European scoffs and I must also mention, tall as a timber, and just as thick. I look like a midget standing beside him.

Back in the days when he was human, he used to carry a cut timber on his shoulders. Or so he said. He mentioned yesterday that he would show me his haunts around Oslo and taste the local blood.

I can't seem to resist the woods. The way it surrounds the mansion makes me feel safe, secure, and most importantly, away from prying eyes. My nocturnal wanderings pull me close to nature; I am part of darkness, after all.

Ah, it's the carriage. Yes, they still have carriages here. Horses and all that. I think it really lends all the more to the quaint charm this undisturbed part of the world still clings to. And then there are the timber workers who are taking the woods away from here. Business roars because of that, said Mr Meyer, and that is the main reason why they are setting up a hotel here. The _nouveau riche_ often come here to stay and enjoy themselves, riding around, taking in the sights.

Oh well, it's not like anyone's complaining.

-+-

-

_Kristiana, Norway_

_January 15 1893_

Sunset in Oslofjord (Erlend says it is spelled fjord, but it sounds more like it has to have an 'i') is very enchanting. The sky bleeds a rich Venetian red all above us, like spilled blood across a blue-purple carpet. The fiord, meanwhile, stays still, but the reflection is just as wondrous. Slowly, though, the sun descends, and the fiord turns black.

I am somewhat hungry after the fascinating show. There is something about the day dying that makes me want to have a rich drink.

"Sure," Erlend says, as he asks the driver to go someplace – my Norwegian is bad, as you can see – and about ten minutes later we arrive at a rather boisterous place called Eda. It was a pub, but what a noisy pub it is! Everyone is shouting, singing and dancing, and I may add, badly for my taste.

Erlend greets a voluptuous woman who is all too human and a look passes between them. She in turn looks at me.

"A new set of teeth, I see," she says, her voice languid and cheery, but still below the horrible din surrounding us. Her accent almost drowns her English, but in a charming way. "Welcome to Kristiana, good sir! While I know Mr Karlsen's preferences, may I get yours?"

Her relaxed poise and confidence is more potent than the blood that is running in her veins. I take a scent and am very nearly overwhelmed. "I would prefer the host, but that will be too improper, won't it?"

Erlend's and her eyes both widen at my comment. I give them a cheery smile and a roll of the eyes. Only then they realise I am joking. "Mr Kostan! You naughty knave, you!" she says, extending one hand, which I kiss and take in the scent of her blood; charming and delicious. "I am Eda Olsen. Please, follow Mr Karlsen and do inform me should you need more – uh, refreshments. Fine?"

I nod as Erlend leads me across the maze of human dancing, screaming and shouting. There is an unmarked door that Erlend pushes. We both enter and as the door falls shut behind us, the noise is suddenly gone.

My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. I am rather pleasantly surprised to see two women standing in the far corner; one brunette, one blonde. They are both beautiful, with cheeks that should glow rosy under the sun, but in the candlelight, they look like polished apples. As do their bosoms. My head races with anticipation: should I go for the jugular, or should I bruise the breasts until I hit the main vein? And what is that other scent that I am picking up...?

Erlend moves forward, and after a few exchanges, the brunette woman moves toward me. I see her smile and her willingness shines like a blinding beacon on her face. I nod – politesse, after all, is still vital – and plant a kiss on her hand, where I plan to sink my teeth and feed off her very delicious blood.

Welcome to Norway!

-+-

-

_Losby Gods_

_January 20, 1893_

"We have a problem."

I loathe hearing those words, especially when I am taking my nocturnal excursions. The walks are supposed to be a balm to my senses after a fine meal. Erlend has been kind to bring fresh blood in a bottle, shared between us like fine wine. Now he throws the proverbial pie in my face.

"So the blood," I motion to the bottle he has in his hand, "is it a peace offering or an apology?"

"A little of both," he replies, with eyes on the snowy ground.

Erlend is a young vampire. He was sired more than a hundred years ago in the battle of Basmo in 1716. Someone from Charles XII squadron took pity of him and, instead of torturing for strategic information, turned him into a vampire. Erlend spent only two years under his new mentor's tutelage because the man died in the autumn of 1718, the same year when Charles XII was killed during trench inspection.

That however was enough for Erlend. The man who taught him was a good teacher, or so he had often described. Most of all he taught Erlend the subtle art of diplomacy. I keep looking at the bottle and his steady fingers and wonder whether he is practicing the art right now.

"My dear Erlend," I smile to him, "say it outright, will you? I cannot bear to have veiled pleas and requests. If you're a human then maybe I enjoy it."

Erlend gives me one of his quick smiles. It means he is nervous.

"Two fortnights ago, remember?"

"Yes." My smile widens even more. "I cannot erase the memory of that night. I hope they are well. I did leave some money for Eda to take care of the ladies."

"Ever the nurturer of his flock," Erlend comments lightly.

"They are a good vintage," I reply.

"1879. Anyway," Erlend shakes his head, obviously trying to remove the fascinating taste of the women, as do I – their taste is like the languid flow of the strange icy blue fiord; refreshing and invigorating – from my mouth. "Anyway, the problem is that we may have a witness."

"May have?" I do not realise my voice has hardened when I say that. Erlend flinches at me. I swallow my rage for a second. "What does that mean, _may have_? You either have a witness or not."

"Well," Erlend says, "this is how it goes. Eda has a live-in artist who paints the happenings in her tavern. He pays her in paintings, so to speak. Two fortnights ago, Eda thought the artist had gone to Berlin for some art exhibition."

"I hate to be a clairvoyant, but Eda was wrong." Erlend nods. "Where was he, then?"

"That room has a connecting corridor to the back alleys. He was standing just outside."

"I bet he saw everything."

"He called for Eda the day after and told Eda he was completely galvanised to paint now."

Well, that is something unexpected. Erlend sees my expression and asks, "You're not angry?"

"Should I be?" I ask him back.

"He knows our existence!"

"And what, inform the Church of Norway?"

"Don't toy with religion, please, Josef." If anything can scratch Erlend's calmness, it's his strange attachment with religion.

"No really. I think we have nothing to worry about. In fact," I say as I walk off a cliff and landing about 50 feet below two seconds later, Erlend half a second behind me, "I feel rather – flattered. Should we have a repeat performance?"

Erlend looks about us. There is a dense covering of woodlands that the timber workers have yet to reach. "This is where you get your tranquillity?"

"Charming, isn't it? So far from everyone, and the fear they feel as they fall with my arms around me... it makes the world disappear for a moment."

Erlend quickly backtracks to the main issue that he has. "Really, Josef, should you be so light-hearted over this? Normally you'd be the one who fears exposure. Would you be this gay should you find a painting of your face entitled _Vampire_ hanging in, who knows, the Louvre?"

I have to say, Erlend learns the nuances and eccentricities of a person too fast for anyone to feel comfortable with, immortal or not. He has a point, though.

I have to see the artist for myself.

-+-

-

_Oslo_

_21 January 1893_

Eda stares at me as if I am about to drain her life. I have half a mind to do that, actually. But not before I get some explanation.

It is dark outside, and strangely the pub is rather deserted. It is still early, so I wonder why the lack of customers.

"I told them to go home," Eda says across the table. Her eyes are staring at anywhere but me now. Now, I may say I like to taste human fear, but it gets in the way of getting something that you want. "Why have you come alone?" she asks.

I raise my eyebrows. I detect worry in her voice; not for her own well-being, but for someone else – is it Erlend? "Erlend is looking for the artist."

"Why?" she blurts out.

I stand up; feeling tired all of a sudden. "Do not worry. I just want to make sure he is not doing what I think he's doing." I move toward the main door, looking through the window. Erlend will be here any second. He is very good in what I have asked him to do.

"Which is?" Eda asks, about ten feet away from me, still in her chair.

"You tell me; you're his landlord."

"He paints," Eda says as she stands up and faces me. Her eyes are pinched and tired. "That is all he does. If you look around Oslo, nobody really appreciates artists. The academy thinks he's stupid, the critics think he's incorrigible, that his paintings are nothing more than a – a travesty to the art!"

"Is it not?" I shoot back with more venom that I intended. "If you come to think of it, Eda, do you even recognise your own face if this – artist were to paint it for you?"

Eda falls silent, but her eyes are now upon me. I turn to her slowly, my instincts come alive and as do my fangs. "What are you looking at?"

"It's _you_."

"Of course it's me, who else could it be? Eda?"

But she has turned away from me and walked toward that door. She is gone for maybe two minutes or so, and returns with something wrapped in a rather clean cotton cloth. From its shape, I hate to speculate on what _else_ it could be.

"He painted _you_."

With deliberate care, Eda takes off the cloth wrapping the canvas. The painting, bathed in the candlelight, is immediately and unmistakably modern and vulgar, at least to my eyes.

In the foreground there is a shapeless figure that curves almost sickeningly upward. It stands upon a long overlook. Two elongated hands seemingly cover the ears, and the stretched face has nothing to signify that it is a face. In place of a mouth is an empty oval, while the eyes are dots of black and darkened yellow. The nostrils are holes. I cannot even say if the person is a man or a woman.

Then my eyes are pulled to the foreground. A garish red spreads across the upper canvas, like after a feeding that has gone disastrously wrong and I have no intention of cleaning it up. It reminds me of the scene I have seen earlier at Oslofjord. Finally, my eyes rest upon two figures in the far left background. Even in the dimness of the light, I immediately realise who those figures are.

The door suddenly is forced open. In tumbled a man with wet hair. Erlend walks in and pulls the man standing. Under the poor light, I can see that he is not well-off – his cheeks are sunken, his eyes are red and bleary, but at moments they can light up with the most intense of lights, his skin is pinched, and scrawny as an unfed child. If I were to be hungry at this moment, I would rather resort to the fattest rat around than sinking my teeth into his arm.

"I am sorry – truly – Eda? What – why did you take that out?"

At that moment his eyes light up with the light I have mentioned earlier. With a strength even Erlend have not come to expect the man pulls himself free and runs past me, toward Eda, takes the painting and wraps it again in the white cloth. All done in a space under five seconds.

He then coughs aloud for quite a spell. Obviously the conserve of his energies are very little.

Eda rubs his back, then pulls a chair for him to sit upon. Still holding the painting like hanging on for dear life, the man asks:

"Who are you? Why have you come for my painting?"

Erlend starts to speak, but I hold up a hand to stop him. I proceed to say, "It is not for your painting we have come for but you."

Now he raises his head with one hand covering his mouth and stares at me. His eyes have lost the light, but now he stares at me with a new kind of light – with fear and adoration. He lets out a laugh.

"Vampires," he says with a laugh in his voice. "What do you want? I don't think I am that appetising to have two vampires coming after me, right?"

"He knows, Josef," Erlend whispers at my ear.

"What does he really know?" I ask aloud for the man to hear. "All he knows is that we are vampires."

"Yes," he replies. "And I also know that the women are together in it. They are also both vampires. They want too much, and they give nothing in return. Isn't that the way women all are?"

"You should see his paintings," Erlend says as the man keeps on muttering about women, vampires and why he hates them. "Most of them are about death, sickness and other sad things the mortals face. But there is also a series about vampires. Nobody I know, though, personally, I say this fellow is rather sick in the head."

"Then there is no problem at all."

Erlend's eyes are fixed upon me like nails on a coffin. "I don't believe you. Can't you hear what I have just said?"

"Yes I have, my dear Erlend, and I don't think that this can be a problem. Look at that painting he has in his arms." I point to the canvas that the man still has around his arms. "He paints in an – what's the word..."

"Expressionist!" he screams from the other end.

"Thank you. Nobody will look at his paintings – _the_ painting – and think that vampires really exist. It's an expression."

"But what about his diary?"

"What about it? He's a confirmed rather problematic in the head. I think he will be thought as the same when someone reads his diary." I pace toward him and sat down, Erlend standing behind me. "Tell me something, good sir."

"Yes?" he says.

"When did you finish this?"

"Today."

"Today? That's impressive. You see, there are two figures in the background that seems very familiar to me. Care to tell me who, or what they are?"

I know the answer, but it just sounds better to hear it from the horse's mouth. His eyes suddenly close and it seems to be that he is in what the Victorians may call a state of trance.

"Nice, 22 January 1892. I was walking down a path. The sky turned red – my senses suddenly attuned to nature – there were two people walking toward me – I saw you two walking – somehow it all made sense at the moment – the two of you, the red sky, my sudden, unfathomable fear, oh – I wanted to scream..."

He opens his eyes. They are, again, filled with that intense light. "I will paint the two of you, over and over again. I have never felt so alive – so inspired. So – so... _red_. Please, allow me to do so."

I nod. "With one condition."

-+-

-

_Los Angeles_

_February 1994_

I hear him before I see him. That is often the case with Mick. Youngbloods...

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS!!!"

How's the KRX doing? The HKEX is opening in positive tones today. Wallstreet... I hate to think what will happen to it in several years' time. They really should open up to –

"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"

Heaving a deep sigh, I turn to him. "Good evening to you too. Did someone forget to plug the ice box yesterday before turning in?"

Mick grabs a remote control from my lap and turns on the TV. To my astonishment he stops cruising the channel at a Sports Channel that is currently covering the Lillehammer Winter Olympics.

"Ah, Norway! So many memories. But I think you have installed your own cable last year. Did your little PI venture go belly up?"

Mick gives me what he thinks his intense stare. I treat it as a cat staring at his owner begging for attention. "Listen to this."

A beautiful blonde is reporting, not from the stadium, but from the busy streets of Lillehammer: "... shook the art world when one of Norway's famous artworks, _The Scream_, was stolen from the museum. There are speculations that the theft occurred due to the lax security, but the police are yet to confirm on anything..."

"Do you think she's a real blonde or peroxide?" I wonder. Really. With all the colouring, a woman's head could become screwed because of the chemicals. No wonder why Freud cannot solve that mystery.

"Ignore the subject and I will call the Interpol myself," Mick growls.

"All right! Jeez, you're more touchy than Munch himself." I look at the doorway – no one is outside. "Right. I met Munch –"

"Bullshit!" Mick exclaims. He then sees my expression. My granite, scalpel-sharp stare.

"I met Munch in 1893. He said that in return for my permission to paint me and some of my friends, he will give that painting to me as his last will and testament."

"So you're just trying to get back what's rightfully yours, is that it?"

Pouring a bottle of blood into a tall glass, I nod. "It was supposed to be mine. He wanted to give it to me. Yes, the painting was not very flattering, but it's a priceless piece of art. I wanted it."

Mick stares at the TV which was currently showing a full-blown capture of the painting. "Is that you?" he asks, pointing at the main figure screaming in the foreground. "You look sick."

I let Mick laughs the night away and let Munch's secrets stay on the canvas. Hidden in plain sight.

-+-

-

_To dear readers, please be kind. I do not need much, just the reviews. Good or bad or ugly, as long as it fills the meter up. _


End file.
